"I'll put what I like in my hair and you can go to Hell."
For a moment Mrs. Weatherby recoiled as if Miss Fosdick had struck her a blow. "Oh! Oh!" she cried in a stricken manner, and then firmly, "Take care what you're saying."
"I'll put what I like in my hair. I'm an old maid because you made me one."
"You're a ridiculous sight."
"No more than you and your silly religions. You've spoiled everything for me."
Mrs. Weatherby gave a throaty laugh. "Spoiled everything, have I? And where would you be without me, pray? You'd have nothing except for me. You'd be a pauper."
In Miss Fosdick a hundred respectable New England ancestors rose and ran riot. "You. Everybody laughs at you. Nobody ever comes here but a lot of old women who want a meal." She choked and began to cry hysterically. "And a lot of old fools with silly religions."
Suddenly with a groan Mrs. Weatherby collapsed full length on the floor. She lay there crying out, calling upon Heaven to witness the ingratitude of this creature she had protected for so long. Miss Fosdick understood only fragments. "After I'm dead you'll remember. . . . After all I've done for you."
But Miss Fosdick felt suddenly seasick and ran from the room. The screams followed her along the corridor until she was in her own room with the door bolted behind her.
Sobbing, she seated herself at the dressing-table.
